


In Your Keeping

by river_soul



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 16:28:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/river_soul/pseuds/river_soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a response to the prompt "Jon/Sansa + post-battle sex (with Jon still riding a blood-lust high)" from asoiafkinkmeme for midnightblack07.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Your Keeping

**Author's Note:**

  * For [midnightblack07](https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightblack07/gifts).



> Many thanks to my awesome beta jasmina22!

It’s quiet in the Queen’s solar with only the gentle click of needles and the soft sound of Sansa’s ladies in waiting as they share hushed whispers together. Once Sansa had dreamed of a life like this but now, fully grown, it feels more like a chore than something she had once hoped for. Duty keeps her from where she truly whishes to be; in the Godswood, wrapped in the memories of her family and praying, especially on days like this, for Jon’s safe return.

It had been odd at first, the idea of marrying the boy who was once her bastard brother but the prospect of returning to Winterfell had been enough to keep her voice steady and sure as she said her vows in the Godswood to him. She had not loved him then, he was a stranger to her but his face held traces of all those who were dead and gone. That had eased some of her worry but it hadn’t been until he pressed a kiss gently against her lips and she’d looked into his eyes, soft and grey like Arya’s, that she felt the tightness in her chest loosen. 

It had taken her time to see the traces of his other heritage. They were subtle things, the flash of amethyst in his eyes before the fire or the curve of his lips under his heavy beard, so very like his aunt in the south. Love had come later, in the intervening years of ruling and rebuilding the North together. 

Sansa tries not to think of him now, fighting beyond the gates of Winterfell against the wildings that plague them still. Instead she tries to focus on her needlework and the loose, uneven lines she has sewn while distracted. After a moment of picking at the thread she gives up with a soft, bored sigh. It is too warm in her solar but her ladies are always cold and Sansa feels suddenly sleepy with the early spring’s sun warming the room. 

\--

Sansa wakes to the screams of her ladies and the sound of furniture being overturned. They flee from the room, needlework forgotten in light of the large direwolf that darts into her solar, unconcerned by the ruckus he has caused. Ghost pads over to where she sits, throwing himself at her feet and it is then Sansa sees what gave her ladies such a fright.

His muzzle is wet with blood, a dark stain against the whiteness of his coat that would fill most men with terror. Sansa only feels relief in knowing he and Jon have returned unharmed to her. She scratches behind his ears, a smile on her lips when his tail thumps loudly against the carpeted floor and his mouth parts to gift her with a jagged smile.

Another set of shrieks erupt from outside the hall and even Sansa is taken aback by Jon’s appearance. He looks frightening, fierce and black bearded with the splay of blood across his face and chest. His sword slaps against his leg as he moves towards her, eyes dark and wanting. 

It quickens something inside her. 

“Out,” he growls at the few ladies brave enough to have remained at the edge of the room. Brienne, hand on the hilt of her sword, takes a step forward and Sansa can see the worried look she and her other guardsmen wear. Their eyes dart between her and Jon. She dismisses them with a reassuring smile and a sharp nod of her head.

“Your Grace.” Sansa says as the doors close firmly behind him. “You have frightened my ladies away,” she scolds playfully. 

Jon says nothing, dropping his sword belt and shedding his breastplate as he continues his steady march towards her. Sansa thinks, where she younger or less sure of him, she might be frightened but she has shared her bed and her heart with this man for too many years to ever doubt what he feels for her. She knows he would never hurt her, but it surprises her a little, the force with which he grabs her forearms and forces her back onto the table.

His lips are searing hot against hers and she gasps into his mouth when his teeth catch her lips between them roughly. He pulls back then, eyes almost completely violet, and Sansa feels her heart stutter in her chest, but when she blinks, they’re grey once more. 

“Sansa,” he says, pleading and pained for her. 

“It’s ok,” she tells him, pressing a kiss tenderly to the corner of his mouth. He softens, momentarily, before he turns his head and kisses her, open-mouthed and brutal, tongue slick against underside of hers. His hands tangle in her hair, pulling at the delicate pins until her curls fall unbound around her face. He looks at her then, desire and want tangled with fear and sadness she doesn't quite understand. 

“Your dress,” he asks her roughly and she nods her assent before his hands fall to her chest, pulling at the complicated weave of lacing at her front. His grunt of annoyance is her only warning before he rips the fabric, the bead work scattering to the floor and table as he palms her breasts roughly. His mouth follows soon after and Sansa cannot help the wanton sound that escapes between her clenched teeth. When she tries to rise up, to pull his mouth to hers he lays a hand over the tender skin of her neck, forcing her head back against the table with a dull thud. 

When she tries to move again he squeezes the slender column of her throat, a warning, before he moves down her body, tugging at her smallclothes. Sansa is unprepared for the feel of his mouth against her core or the rough way he pushes two fingers inside her. “Oh,” she breathes. She is drowning in her own senses, in the soft wetness of his mouth and the burn of his beard against her skin. She bucks against him, hips rising to meet his hand. When she opens her eyes again, he’s watching her with a frightening intensity.

She wants to say his name, to tell him how she loves him, when he pushes inside her without warning, and the words she wants to say are eclipsed by the pained gasp she makes. From behind half-closed eyes she sees the flash of his teeth and tastes the anguished relief of, _Sansa, Sansa_ , that he breathes into her mouth like a prayer. It feels like she’s burning up, body white hot against his cool skin.

“Look at me,” he tells her breathless. 

The bright blue of her eyes lock with his and Sansa sees his skin flecked with brown and red. Dried blood she realizes. Blood of the men he’s killed to come back to her, and though it will make her burn with shame later, it only serves to spur her desire for him now. She arches against him, fisting her hands in his hair. He growls, low and pleased, pushing deeper inside her still. 

He comes with teeth against her neck and a bruising grip against the fleshy part of her hips. She follows a moment after, limbs seizing up around him as her body throbs in tune with his. They lay like that, skin slick with sweat for several moments before Sansa feels him come back to himself. He stiffens above her as the hand on her hip softens its grip. He won’t quite look at her, when he helps her to stand, but his fingers are gentle as they pull together the tattered remains of her dress, to hide her bared skin, red from his attention. 

“Jon.” She says softly, “come here.”

“I shouldn’t have….” He begins but she cuts him off with a finger against his swollen lips. 

“This is why you go to the Godswood after the fighting.” She asks, but it is not a question. 

“Yes,” he says heavily and Sansa is cut by the pain and regret she sees in his eyes

“Next time you will come to me.” He looks sharply at her, the surprise and hope in his eyes enough to make her smile. 

“Have I not hurt you?” he asks.

“It does not always need to be tender,” she tells him. “Although perhaps next time not in the middle of my solar with a small crowd outside the door.”

“As her Grace wishes,” Jon says, a sly smile on his lips.

Sansa reddens with the realization that nearly half the castle will have heard them both together. She has no idea what she will say to Brienne or her ladies when she must face them again.

“Perhaps next time you can meet me in the Godswood,” he suggests, rewarded by the way her eyes widen and her lips part with want. “Or perhaps I shall have you right here again.” He tells her lowly, intent clear on his face.

Her faint, surprised exclamation of "Oh, Jon, no,” is lost as he kisses her until she forgets about anything but the feel of him against her, above her, inside her

**Author's Note:**

> New [tumblr](http://river-soul.tumblr.com/) friends are always welcome!


End file.
